The Cost of Doing Business
by scully1138
Summary: "His attraction to Harold had come as a surprise, but by no means an unpleasant one. After all the dark, soul-numbing years with the Agency it was a wonder he was still capable of feeling affection at all, and he'd indulged shamelessly in the intoxicating buzz of his new infatuation..." The quest to save a famous anthropologist becomes a very personal mission.


The Cost of Doing Business

.

"Just wait for me, Finch. I'm only twenty minutes away."

"The Numbers wait for no one Mr. Reese, as you well know."

John's hands tightened on the steering wheel as he swung the town car into the passing lane and accelerated around a lumbering mini-van. The anxiety he felt now when Harold insisted on going into the field by himself had become a sort of automatic reflex, as inevitable as breathing or the beating of his heart. He forced a deep exhale and attempted to plead his case.

"You haven't even done a background check. Don't get reckless, Harold. You have no idea what you're dealing with yet."

"Actually, I have a very good notion."

Harold paused in that familiar way which almost always meant that John was not going to like whatever his partner said next.

"The Machine has given us Edward Hunnicutt's number."

There was silence between them for a moment as John absorbed this information - and all of its troubling implications.

A few months ago Edward Hunnicutt had been a respected but obscure anthropologist, specializing in the study of pre-Columbian civilizations. But that was before his sensationalistic book about the savage rituals of Aztec culture, _The Blood of Gods and Men, _had become an unlikely bestseller. The book's success was due in no small part to its charismatic author's uncanny and unceasing gift for self-promotion, and Hunnicutt himself had become something of a celebrity. But for all of its mass-market popularity, the book - with its graphic descriptions and illustrations of human sacrifices - had its share of detractors as well. Many historians and proud descendents of the ancient Aztecs derided it as a one-sided and exploitative depiction of what in fact had been a remarkably advanced culture with a complex theology. Some of Hunnicutt's critics had been extremely vocal, and numerous death threats against the anthropologist had been well-publicized.

John felt a little chill as his skin prickled uncomfortably. He never ignored his instincts, and his apprehension only increased as Harold continued.

"The exhibition inspired by his book opens this weekend at the Museum of Natural History and Hunnicutt is in town to promote it. As I suspected, our anthropologist is only too eager to meet with a representative from the Field Museum to discuss a transfer of the collection to Chicago after it closes here. I'm already on my way, and I've informed the curator that my colleague will be joining us. When you arrive please make your presence known at Guest Services and you'll be escorted up."

"I don't like this, Finch. Do you know how many people this guy has ticked off? And how many people go through that museum every day? The threat could be coming from anywhere."

"All the more reason for me to make timely contact with Mr. Hunnicutt."

"All the more reason for you to wait for me, Harold."

"I'm afraid that time is of the essence. Hunnicutt is the guest of honor tonight at a black-tie gala that the museum is hosting to celebrate his accomplishments and officially open the exhibition. He'll be mingling with the public, completely exposed to whatever - "

"Go ahead then. Knock yourself out."

He didn't need to sit through an entire lecture to know that he had lost the argument.

"Just please, be careful."

"That is always my intention, Mr. Reese."

"Fine."

"Fine indeed."

The equanimity in Harold's voice only added to his irritation, but John was well aware that he was just as annoyed with himself as with his partner.

As an Army Ranger he'd led special operations against heavily-armed insurgents all over the world. He'd gone deeply undercover during his time with the CIA, carrying out his troubling assignments with deadly accuracy and narrowly escaping death more times than he could remember without ever losing his composure.

How was it now that this secretive, courageous and very stubborn man - a man he was proud to call his friend - had the ability to reduce him to the equivalent of a quarreling schoolboy?

His attraction to Harold had come as a surprise, but by no means an unpleasant one. It had been so long since he'd felt anything except misery and despair that he had welcomed it really. After all the dark, soul-numbing deeds he'd committed during those bleak years with the Agency it was a wonder he was still capable of feeling affection at all, and he'd indulged shamelessly in the intoxicating buzz of his new infatuation. It seemed heady and harmless at first - and endlessly easy to rationalize as the natural result of their dangerous work, a fleeting response to the life-or-death situations they faced together every day.

But more quickly than he could have imagined his little flirtation had evolved into something much more profound. His own body seemed to feel every pain that played across Harold's face when he took a bad step or turned his damaged neck too far; he was reluctant to leave him unprotected now even when a case was resolved. Helping the Numbers was still the objective of their work but keeping Harold safe had become his de facto mission.

The simple truth was that he'd fallen in love with his reclusive employer. He loved the man, and as his feelings had intensified his fantasies had grown more daring and stunningly vivid, tempting him with images of Harold naked in his arms and hungering for his touch, returning his passionate kisses with even greater ardor, moaning with pleasure as John brought him to completion…

He banished the mesmerizing picture from his mind. He had to stop imagining Harold as his lover; the shy and reserved man would never want that kind of closeness with him.

Finch had offered him a job that had become his salvation. They were friends now as well, and his partner would certainly be dismayed if he ever discovered John's true feelings - he might even decide it would be better if they didn't work together anymore. The thought of that was simply unbearable, and John was determined never to jeopardize their crusade - this business of saving lives they had embarked upon together - or risk the friendship that had become so vital to him. He was certain that Harold knew he had his loyalty, and John would have to be satisfied with that.

A fender bender turned the interstate into a parking lot just before the tunnel, as irritated motorists gawked and jockeyed to maneuver their vehicles around the dented cars and their quarrelling drivers. John was still miles away from the museum, and the strange sense of dread enveloped him once again. He had a very bad feeling about this Hunnicutt business, and the fact that there'd been something not quite right about the case they'd just wrapped was only adding to his uneasiness.

The son of a popular Guadalajaran politician, Manuel Robles had immigrated legally after landing a job with a prominent software development company, not unlike Finch's own IFT. He had settled comfortably in Brooklyn's Sunset Park neighborhood - until his abilities had attracted the attention of Mexico's deadliest and most notorious drug cartel.

The Zetas had risen to power by establishing an unprecedented communication and surveillance network that spanned all of Mexico. The elaborate system provided them with almost unlimited knowledge of the Mexican police, the military and even US border patrol agents, and they used this information to send tons of narcotics north and billions of dollars south with almost ridiculous ease; the cartel had even developed its own intelligence network. The Zetas were easily the most technologically advanced and sophisticated crime organization in Mexico, probably in the world.

Manuel's unique combination of technical expertise and political connections had proved irresistible, but he had refused the Zetas' efforts to recruit him. They had intervened just as the young man was about to be abducted and forcibly put to work for the cartel, with Harold providing a new identity and even a comparable job on the other side of the country. So Manuel was safe, but John was still bothered by the whole event. The Mexican cartels primarily ran their drugs into the US through California or Texas; the Italian and Russian mobs still had a stranglehold on drug trafficking here in New York and along the east coast. That the Zetas would make such a brazen move on enemy turf could be a signal that they were about to challenge for the territory, and if that were the case there would be bloody times ahead indeed.

Traffic finally began to move and he glanced at his GPS. Only a few more minutes until he reached the museum - and Harold.

.

Harold paused halfway up the massive stone steps leading to the entrance of the Museum of Natural History and leaned against the railing, waiting for the throbbing in his leg to subside.

The garishly colored banners framing the entrance proclaimed _"Aztec! The Blood of Gods and Men" _and somehow managed to convey the dubious impression that the museum was promoting the latest energy drink as much as the most anticipated antiquities exhibition of the season. Nonetheless a long line of people waited to buy tickets with varying degrees of patience, trailing out of the museum, down the steps and past a large placard bearing the smiling image of the man of the hour.

Thirtyish, blonde and radiating enthusiasm, with unselfconscious good looks and a deep natural tan, Edward Hunnicutt gave the impression more of someone who'd wandered in from a game of beach volleyball rather than the author of a celebrated anthropologic tome. Sleek, seal brown glasses added just the right scholarly touch, and it was easy to see why the spotlight loved him as much as he loved the spotlight.

_Ow!_

A shiver of pain raced down his spine as he was thrown hard against the cold steel of the railing.

"You really ought to be more careful, young man!"

"Sorry, mister!"

The stocky teen waved cheerfully back over his shoulder as he raced to catch up with his friends.

The shove that had sent him into the railing had also separated him from his computer bag, and Harold watched as the laptop bounced down the last few steps he had just so laboriously climbed. Gripping the handrail tightly he maneuvered his way back down, and bent over stiffly to retrieve it. If John were here, he thought unwillingly, he'd scoop the bag up effortlessly and slip the strap over Harold's shoulder without a word.

And let his hand linger there a moment or two longer than was really necessary.

Harold shook his head as vigorously as his injured neck would allow, and chided himself for such folly. Those little gestures he kept imagining were merely a reflection of his own loneliness - with a healthy dose of wishful thinking thrown in for good measure. He knew that John looked out for him and he appreciated it. They had become friends after all, and he understood that the ex-op was grateful for their work and the redemptive opportunities it presented. But to suppose the man could ever feel more for him - let alone find him physically attractive - was just the sort of nonsense that Harold had spent a lifetime avoiding. Even the thought that John could ever love him was so outlandish that he found it easy - and painful - to dismiss.

What was more difficult to deny was just how much he enjoyed being near his handsome partner, and how dangerously close he was to forming an attachment that would only break his heart. His treasonous mind whispered words of hope at every little attention John offered, and his partner's thoughtfulness made Harold feel more human than he had in a very long time - not just the sum of his algorithms and equations. He was even aware the ex-op had tried and failed to unearth secrets from his past; what Harold was reluctant to admit was that John already knew him better than any cold, hard facts a dossier could provide.

And that frightened him as much as anything. He had survived in this world by remaining fiercely independent and self-reliant, but now he was starting to take for granted the sense of security and companionship that John was seemingly always there to provide. That wasn't fair to his loyal partner and friend, and Harold was determined to maintain his professional distance and dignity - no matter how difficult it was becoming, no matter how fervently he wished their relationship could be something more.

He forced his thoughts back to Edward Hunnicutt, and his feet back to the looming stone steps.

.

The curator - Mr. Maxwell - was waiting for him as promised at the information desk but wasted no time with formalities, offering a cursory handshake before darting off through the throngs of visitors crowding the Great Hall, oblivious to his limping guest's struggle to keep pace. Harold fought his way through the crush of tourists and school kids jostling for a closer look at the famous T. Rex that welcomed the museum's visitors, and pushed aside an uncomfortable feeling of claustrophobia that threatened to close in despite the vastness of the hall.

Maxwell walked briskly through the Hall of African Mammals, then took a shortcut through the gift shop before finally pausing to look back. Harold dodged to avoid being smacked by an enormous stuffed shark wielded by a distracted teenager, and exhaled a sigh of relief as they reached the tranquility of a private elevator.

The entire second floor of the museum had been appropriated for the Aztec exhibition's grand opening, and the galleries bustled with activity as workers and vendors completed preparations for the approaching festivities. The curator himself was a dervish of nervous energy, snapping out orders and dashing off periodically to confer with his underlings about various last minute details - all while managing to bombard Harold with a breathless monologue about the prestige of the highly anticipated event.

_The eyes of the cultural world are upon the Museum of Natural History today… Quite the feather in my own cap, I must admit… We've acquired over thirty-five thousand new members in the past month alone… Those bunglers at the Smithsonian were positively salivating for this exhibition…_

Harold listened absently as they made their way down the wide corridor lined with blood-red _Aztec!_ banners and small glass cases containing artifacts highlighting the collection. The Aztec Exhibition was being presented in the Hall of Mexico and Central America, and he noted with approval the abundance of unobtrusive surveillance cameras and private security guards monitoring the entire area. Everything appeared to be in order, and he tried to push aside a persistent, vague feeling of apprehension.

Just outside the entrance to the hall, a small alcove had been designated for the press, and traditional media outlets were doing battle with bloggers for space in the over-crowded area. Maxwell scurried off to settle a territorial dispute, and Harold proceeded on alone, curious despite his misgivings. He was unprepared however, for the collection's first terrifying attraction.

A clay statue, nearly six feet tall, had been positioned at the entrance to greet the exhibit's visitors, and Harold had to force himself not to look away. The ghoulish figure had most of its skin torn off; its liver hung out from beneath an exposed rib cage, and claw-like hands seemed to reach for him in a most menacing fashion. Harold shuddered and stepped away, but a voice called after him.

"I see you've met _Mictlantecuhtli_, god of death and ruler of the underworld. His outstretched arms beckon the dead so he can rip them apart as they enter into his realm."

The man approaching was in his mid-twenties, impeccably dressed and suave, with a casual air of entitlement. He might have been at home on the set of a Telemundo _telenovela_ were it not for the cruel line of his mouth and something cold in his handsome features that was decidedly not viewer friendly.

He held a knife with a double-sided obsidian blade, the edges of which gleamed with razor-like sharpness. The wooden handle was intricately carved, and he turned the weapon compulsively between his hands as he spoke.

"The death lord's supplicants beseeched him by cutting out the beating hearts of their sacrifices and eating them in his honor."

Harold swallowed hard and said nothing, utterly at a loss for words. He was still searching for an appropriate response to the macabre remark when he was saved by the return of Mr. Maxwell, accompanied now by the buoyant anthropologist.

"It's a real pleasure to meet you, Mr. Crane." Hunnicutt shook his hand with enthusiasm. "And of course we're delighted to learn of the Field Museum's interest in our little project. Have you met my benefactor, Ramon Ruiz? This exhibition would not be possible without his very generous contribution."

Finch forced himself to shake the unsettling man's hand.

"You must be quite an admirer of Mr. Hunnicutt's work, to donate so lavishly to this event."

"The sacred blood of my Aztec ancestors flows through my veins,_ Señor_ Crane. Edward is a visionary. He too understands the beauty of those ancient times when the gods not only guided from afar, but walked with their people among the lands and temples and battlefields of the great Aztec Empire. He has been given the gift of bringing the glory of this magnificent civilization to our impure, modern world, and I am deeply honored to assist in this work."

He rolled the obsidian-bladed knife between his palms, drawing the attention of the curator.

"Mr. Ruiz, of course you'll be returning that _tecpatl _to its proper place in the exhibition before tonight's opening, I assume."

Ramon's black eyes hardened into a chilly glaze but after a moment he nodded in polite acquiescence.

"The _tecpatl _is the most well-known of all Aztec weapons," Edward explained, "notorious for its use in the culture's ritual of human sacrifices. Look at the precision with which that blade was carved. Relatively few of these have survived, and this is the most exquisite piece I have ever encountered."

Hunnicutt appeared more boyish in person than on his book covers and billboards. Something about him struck Finch as a little naïve as well, and as Ramon approached and draped a proprietary arm across the anthropologist's shoulders Harold wished that the man were as alert to modern day perils as he was to ancient ones.

"Why don't you take a look at the collection?" Edward suggested. "Then if you're still interested we can look at some preliminary dates for the Chicago show."

He let the others walk on ahead. Hunnicutt's patron was clearly fanatical, but as Harold listened to the three men talk it was also obvious that Ramon was just as knowledgeable and passionate about his Aztec ancestors' history as the anthropologist himself. As he perused the exhibit Harold recognized several rare artifacts that had never been allowed out of Mexico before - a magnificent feathered and beaded headdress with extraordinary craftsmanship, and a trio of beautiful ceremonial masks, all intricate mosaics of turquoise and pyrite and coral. Even the famous calendar stone - the apex of Aztec achievement and sophistication - was included in the exhibition, and Harold took a moment to appreciate the mysterious sculpture.

There was no denying that Ruiz had facilitated an exquisite collection. For a moment Harold was tempted to give him the benefit of the doubt, but the next sight knocked the breath out of him as thoroughly as if he'd been slammed against the stone monolith he'd just been examining.

At the end of the great hall was a giant diorama depicting - in the most gruesome and graphic detail imaginable - a ritual human sacrifice.

A conquered warrior stared with vacant eyes, his body pinioned to the altar's killing stone, his chest laid open as the white-robed executioner held his excised heart towards the sky. A somber priest - clad in the flayed human skin of previous victims - sipped the unfortunate's blood from an ornate earthen goblet, and a seemingly endless line of terrified captives cowered and waited their turn along the tiers of the pyramid. Blood flowed down the steps of the temple.

Despite the many beautiful antiquities on display, the grisly diorama was clearly intended to be the centerpiece of the exhibition, and Ramon stared at it enthralled, his face a rapturous mask. He beckoned Harold over and whispered as if they were in church.

"The sun god _Huitzilopochtli_ demands blood sacrifices in order to wage his never-ending battle against the darkness, for only in this way can the fragile balance of the cosmos be maintained. My ancestors once made an offering of twenty-thousand souls in a single ritual, though the bravest and most handsome warriors were considered the worthiest sacrifice, and most pleasing to the gods."

Harold took a quiet step back and stole a glance at his watch, but Maxwell had been vigilantly monitoring the time as well.

"Perhaps you should get changed Edward, I'd like you to meet with some of our most prominent contributors before dinner, and perhaps you can say a few words to the press as well."

Harold accompanied the little group into the VIP lounge. Ramon still carried the glistening _tecpatl, _and Finch noticed that the curator did not make a second attempt at retrieving it for the exhibition.

There was a soft buzz and Maxwell glanced down at an incoming text.

"Oh good, your associate has arrived Mr. Crane. Allow me to escort him up and we can begin our discussion. We're all eager to hear what the Field Museum has in mind for this amazing collection."

Maxwell rushed off, and Harold bit back a smile even as he felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders. John would certainly have some choice comments about the strangeness of this case, and he was already looking forward to hearing them.

There was a sudden sound of movement in the hallway, and brisk footfalls far too heavy for the slender curator and Harold's cat-footed partner.

"Are you expecting anyone else, Mr. Hunnicutt?"

Ramon Ruiz turned to them with a devious smile and a gleam in his cold, black eyes.

"Actually, they're with me."

.

"What do you mean, '_they're gone_?'"

John's voice quavered with barely-controlled fury and the curator took an unconscious step back, but the ex-op seized Maxwell's arm fiercely, forcing the man to meet his menacing gaze.

"I don't know, I can't explain it. I wasn't gone ten minutes, and when I left to fetch you everything was fine. We're checking the security feeds right now but it's possible that our surveillance has been tampered with.

"No one saw Mr. Hunnicutt or your colleague leave the museum. There's no sign of Mr. Ruiz, either."

"_Ruiz?" _John stared at Maxwell in utter astonishment, and his grip on the curator's arm ratcheted a few degrees tighter. "Cesar Ruiz was here?"

"No, Ramon Ruiz. He's Edward's benefactor. Mr. Ruiz sponsored the Aztec exhibition, he's become a most generous and valued patron of the museum."

"He's also the nephew of the most notorious drug lord in Mexico. Don't try and tell me that you didn't know…"

"Of course we knew, and we had him vetted and investigated thoroughly. He insisted that all of his money came from legitimate investments, and we could find no proof to the contrary. Without his assistance there would be no exhibition…"

"Your precious exhibition was financed by drug money, and you don't even know it!"

John released the curator and stepped away when he realized that Maxwell was cowering in front of him, but rage was the only outlet he had for the absolute terror he was feeling.

In addition to their technical expertise, the Zetas were infamous for one other trait - their merciless and unremitting savagery. Since Cesar Ruiz had taken over, the cartel's tactics had only become more extreme. No longer satisfied with drug trafficking and coldblooded murder, they now routinely intimidated and terrorized law enforcement officials, rival drug cartels - and anyone else who got in their way - with kidnapping, torture and even beheadings.

Now they had taken Hunnicutt - and Harold apparently along with him.

John paced the small room furiously. Connections were forming but none that made sense. Why would the Zetas draw attention to themselves with such a high-profile abduction, especially if they were on the verge of initiating an ambitious turf war?

He had no answers, only a gut-wrenching fear at the thought of Harold in the hands of such brutal men, and a silent, steadfast vow to find him and bring him home safely, no matter the cost.

Maxwell was still stammering after him as he strode out of the room and headed for Mexico.

.

The lurch of the truck passing over a crater-like pothole tossed him across the pickup's uncovered cargo area, jolting his back and sending fiery tremors down his spine and into his entire body. The pain that seared through him was enough to shock him into consciousness of a sort, but it was panic that brought him all the way back when he felt the shackles binding his hands and feet.

He had been thrown face down in the back of the truck, and Harold could feel his skin already beginning to blister under the scorching sun. Laughter and rough voices floated back from the pickup's cab, Spanish and English intermingling, as the driver accelerated to breakneck speed. He flinched as an empty beer bottle sailed past his head.

Fear had made him clear-headed as well, and Harold could remember all too vividly the events that had brought him to his current distress - the museum, Hunnicutt and the anthropologist's sinister benefactor, sudden piercing pain and a starburst of white light.

But before all that there had been John, imploring him to wait just a few minutes so they could do what they always did best - work together.

Instead he had stubbornly rushed ahead, and Harold wondered now what the point of that had been. To prove to himself that he didn't need John, he supposed ruefully, a point inherently unprovable by its very falseness.

His reckless impulse had quite possibly gotten their Number killed, and it had landed him in this unholy mess. And there was no question in Harold's mind about what John was doing now. Undoubtedly looking for _him_, and that was the most heartrending of all his unintended consequences. How many times had he exhaled a clandestine sigh of relief when his partner had returned safely from a dangerous mission, how much harder had it gotten with each perilous case to send him out into the field?

And now Harold's own actions had placed the man at risk yet again, compelled him to pursue what was clearly a formidable enemy. Whoever they were dealing with obviously had extraordinary resources; the average criminal organization no matter how well-connected would hardly have the intelligence or capabilities to infiltrate such a deeply-surveilled and public place as the Museum of Natural History - especially during such a highly visible event as the opening of the Aztec exhibit.

And there, perhaps, was the saving grace. The people responsible for these actions were extremely skillful - it was doubtful they had made any mistakes or left any clues behind for his partner to follow. And if John couldn't find him at least the ex-op would be safe and out of danger.

It was the best he could hope for now. It would mean that he would never see John again, but if it kept him from harm Harold would willingly accept that outcome - though the thought hit harder than all the blows delivered by the rough, pitted road.

The driving and drinking continued; more bottles were tossed from the pickup's window splattering him with the foul-smelling brew, and the voices drifting back from the cab grew louder and rowdier. He had no real way of measuring the amount of time that had elapsed, but the sun was beginning to set when the truck finally lurched to a stop, throwing him across the abrasive cargo floor one more time for good measure.

Doors slammed as the driver and his _compadres_ left the vehicle, and a new voice joined the conversation. An angry discussion ensued, and Harold understood just enough Spanish to be terrifyingly clear on the fact that his captors were debating whether to kill him now or wait until their boss returned.

The conversation ended with a curse and a burst of lurid laughter; he was dragged across the tailgate and set heavily on his feet, but staggered under the weight of the wrist and ankle cuffs and their connecting chain. One of the men held him up by the back of the neck, and Harold cringed as another patted him down, the thug's dirty hands moving roughly across his body. He was shoved forward to the sound of more jeers.

He kept his head down as he was forced along - the last thing he wished to do was further provoke his volatile captors. A quick glance though revealed a rundown ranch house with a newer, adjacent garage and a scattering of smaller buildings. Loud, coarse voices and the pounding beat of a popular Latino pop song blared from within the house, and a convoy of dusty, battered trucks pulled away from the compound as dusk began to descend.

The ground in front of his feet disappeared abruptly as he was brought to the brink of a steep flight of stairs, and he peered down into a crude cellar, unlit and filthy, and at least ten feet deep.

For a moment Harold was unable to move despite the hard nose of the pistol prodding into his back, his claustrophobia from earlier in the day returning full force. Far more frightening however was the sensation of cold steel being pressed against his cheek and the ominous _click_ of the gun's hammer being drawn back, and he took several cautious, teetering steps down the narrow stone stairs. The uneven weight of the chain and manacles threw him off balance though and he stumbled part way down, scraping his face as he fell and landing heavily on his back.

His gasp of pain was followed by the sound of a padlock snapping together. The last failing rays of sunlight cast long shadows through the barred window above him, which turned to darkness as he lay shackled on the hard dirt floor and tried not to think about John.

.

They came for him before sunrise, all but dragging him out of the cellar and escorting him into the ranch house through an unobtrusive side door, which was immediately locked and bolted behind them.

A littered hallway opened into what once must have been a rather grand parlor; faded red velvet curtains hung haphazardly from sagging rods, and once-fine leather chairs - now cracked from neglect - were scattered across a scuffed hardwood floor. At the opposite side of the room a rough doorway had been cut through into the building Harold had assumed to be a garage, but in fact appeared to be more of a makeshift warehouse. A massive, ultra HD flat screen incongruously dominated the dilapidated parlor, droning the world financial news.

The broadcast was being watched by one person only; he occupied his enormous armchair like a throne and the soldiers protecting him groveled as if he indeed were a king. The man the others called _Cesar _was powerfully built, with a large, boxy head resting on strong, bullish shoulders. His black hair was slicked back and neatly combed above small, piercing eyes, but a long, thinning mustache failed to hide the deep crevices that descended from his misshapen nose and lined both sides of his sunburned face. His smile as he turned to greet Harold was the same chilling one that the younger Ruiz possessed.

"Good morning, Mr. Crane. I'm always interested in meeting Ramon's new friends."

A tiny Chihuahua sat awkwardly on the man's lap, disappearing every few seconds under the drug lord's scarred hand as he stroked the dog's short hair.

"What do you think of my nephew? A fine boy, is he not? When my beloved brother was murdered by the Sinaloa I swore an oath to provide for his son and I have kept that promise - Ramon has been denied nothing my power and money could give him.

"He has grown into a handsome, ambitious young man who is using his wealth and influence for the benefit of others, such as his work with Mr. Hunnicutt. He has made me very proud, and because of my success Ramon will have a better life than his father. That's the American dream, is it not? You and I should get along just fine."

Ruiz spoke in a formal manner, carefully affected to heighten the menace which seemed to radiate from his very flesh. Even the little dog appeared uneasy, yipping and squirming in a futile attempt to escape from its doting master.

Harold's familiar laptop was open and running on the table next to Cesar, and he watched as the cartel leader explored his phone as well with gleeful fascination, clearly impressed by its unique capabilities.

"I'm accustomed to getting all the new toys first, yet this phone has some most unusual applications. And how is it that your computer is running an operating system I've never even heard of?"

A wayward gecko skittered across the ruined floor. Finch focused his eyes on the tiny reptile and tried to calm his frantically pounding heart.

"Not all of your technology appears to be legal," Ruiz added shrewdly.

He shifted in silent misery as the fortunate lizard scurried away, and for the first time Harold noticed the bloody knife laying at the drug lord's feet. Another of the compound's residents clearly had not been as lucky as the fleeing gecko.

"No answers for Cesar today? Well, it doesn't matter. My nephew's little whims are always entertaining, and I'm delighted that this time he's actually brought back someone who will be of use to me. As you may have noticed, I recently parted ways with my accountant…"

Finch followed Cesar's eyes to a gutted body dumped near the entrance to the warehouse and his stomach churned. The cartel leader gave him an appraising look.

"Judging from the software on this laptop I have every confidence that you will understand exactly what needs to be done. Are we in agreement then? It would sadden me to lose two employees in one day."

It didn't take long for Harold to analyze his painfully limited options. He could refuse of course, and be killed on the spot. But he still didn't know what had become of Hunnicutt, and he couldn't bring himself to give up on a Number, not while there was even a slim chance that the anthropologist was still alive.

His heart suggested another reason for survival and Harold pushed it firmly away. This was a debacle of his own making, and the consequences were his alone to endure. He gave the drug lord a small nod of compliance.

Cesar's mouth hardened into a satisfied smile and Harold was dismissed by a wave of the kingpin's hand.

The bright lights of the warehouse hurt his eyes after the dimness of the parlor, and it took a moment for his vision to clear as he was led away to his new job. Even when his eyes adjusted though, he could scarcely believe the sight before him. The building housed an enormous stockpile of cocaine, tightly wrapped into small bundles that were stacked to the ceiling like a ghastly, malignant mountain. Open crates containing guns of every description - as well as some advanced weapons that Harold didn't recognize - lined the room, and duffel bags stuffed with US currency spilled their contents carelessly onto the concrete floor.

More bodies were heaped to the side as well, although these at least had been covered by a bloodstained tarp. He didn't need to ask the purpose of several large vats of lye which occupied the far corner of the building.

The warehouse was guarded by a group of restless young thugs - masked even in the sweltering heat - and armed with assault rifles, one of which was pointed directly at Harold as he was manacled to a large steel table containing an array of screens and computers so sophisticated that they resembled a NASA control center. A nudge with the muzzle of the rifle encouraged him to get to work immediately.

Finch was forced to admit that the drug lord had indeed assessed his skills astutely. It took him only a few minutes to understand the complicated process by which the Zetas' money was funneled through multiple shell corporations, and even a few legitimate businesses, on its way to cozy resting places in untraceable bank accounts all over the world. He subtly tested the system as well, but the cartel's encryption programs and anonymizing software rivaled his own creations, and the safeguards built into the network eliminated the possibility of sending out a call for help; he would surely be detected.

But even with the shackles chafing his wrists, the familiar sensation of his fingers flying over a keyboard calmed him and he focused on committing to memory all the details of the Zetas' accounts. In the unlikely event he survived he would cheerfully and efficiently drain them of ever last penny, and that thought consoled him until he was roughly escorted back to the cellar at nightfall.

It had been relatively easy to occupy his mind during the day, focused as he was on executing his mandatory new duties. But he had no such distractions now, and as he lay in the black silence of the cellar, bound and in pain, Harold's thoughts turned once again to John, and this time he didn't have the strength to chase them away.

Instead he tried to imagine what it would be like if John were actually able to find him. How would he know from his underground prison?

There would be the sound of gunfire to be sure, and cries of pain as kneecaps were obliterated. Perhaps a security alarm would be triggered, sending earsplitting screeches into the air that could be heard even in his abysmal cellar. Tires squealing as Cesar's crew tried to escape. Sirens wailing as the police arrived.

John's face as he appeared at the base of the stairs…

He drifted away into an exhausted, fitful sleep.

.

Daybreak brought a return to the makeshift warehouse and another day of being shackled to the cartel's computer center - and more bloody corpses piled against the back wall. His weakening body ached painfully from another night spent on the unforgiving cellar floor and his head was soon pounding from the glare and hum of the florescent lights, but Harold forced himself to continue the work that - while thoroughly repugnant - was also the only thing keeping him alive.

He hadn't given up hope of finding some flaw in the Zetas' network either, and he quietly observed the cartel's operation, searching for any defect he might exploit. But the Zetas moved their grim products more efficiently than most legitimate businesses, and a steady stream of dirty, often bullet-ridden vehicles arrived to be loaded with drugs and weapons. Vast amounts of money changed hands as well - either through more duffel bags stuffed with cash or into one of the untraceable accounts that Harold was reluctantly overseeing - and he concentrated on his distasteful task.

He was interrupted however by a loud, furious voice near the warehouse's one small window, and the contorted face of Ramon Ruiz drifted into view. His companion was turned away from Harold, but the sandy blond hair left no doubt that it was Hunnicutt - and he was feeling the full wrath of his former benefactor.

"For proof of the eternal truth of my ancestors' beliefs you need only to embrace how the public has responded to your work, Edward. The world has always known this truth! It just needed to be reminded, and you have been sent to us for that mission. _Huitzilopochtli_ has chosen you! You must accompany me to the Pyramids of the Sun and the Moon where together we will make the necessary sacrifices…"

The men moved away, but Harold had already heard more than enough. It had been obvious from their first meeting that Ramon was an extremely dangerous man - the fact that he was also completely, certifiably insane made the situation even more volatile. But Hunnicutt was still alive. He hadn't completely failed their Number after all, and he set to work with renewed determination to find a way to save the anthropologist.

But that night alone in his cellar, Harold again let pictures of his imagined rescue play over and over in his mind, and like a playwright perfecting a script he began adding details to the scene.

The Chihuahua yapping wildly in the distance. The roar of a helicopter and searchlights skimming the ground. The cellar door being ripped off its hinges, and familiar, graceful footfalls on the steps.

John kneeling beside him, relief flooding his face…

And if the scene sometimes ended with John gathering him up and covering his feverish skin with sweet, cool kisses - well that was something no one else would ever need to know.

.

John surveyed the decaying _hacienda _from behind a straggly acacia tree and forced himself to focus, ignoring the familiar rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins and despite a heart that was suddenly pounding wildly with anticipation. Every instinct he possessed was blaring that he was finally in the right place - that if Harold were still alive he would find him here - and he couldn't afford to make any mistakes now.

The painstaking search had been filled with frustrating dead ends and disheartening false hopes; several times he'd been given bad information and thrown off the trail by locals too fearful of the cartel's wrath to help him. But he'd finally been guided to this isolated old compound by a grief-stricken young woman whose brother had been killed by the Zetas, and her directions appeared to have led him straight to their door.

The collection of dilapidated buildings at first appeared to be nothing more than an old farmstead that had fallen on exceedingly hard times - there was even an ancient tractor rusting in a nearby field. But there were several telling, incongruous details as well. A cluster of high-end cars parked around the side of the main building - two Escalades, a new Range Rover, and even a sleek Aston Martin - looked decidedly out of place amid the mesquite and cacti that adorned the otherwise desolate scrubland, and the predawn light glinted off an enormous satellite dish affixed to the roof of the old ranch house.

There were no cameras or motion sensors discernible even to his highly-trained eyes, and that was a testament to the cartel's sophisticated surveillance techniques; the compound probably had better security than most small countries.

Still, he needed to risk a closer look before he could determine how best to proceed, and there was only one structure between his hiding place and the ranch house - a sort of primitive dais, bounded on all four sides by steps leading to a smooth stone slab. The strange platform was set near the compound's perimeter and he slipped behind it - not really caring what it was - and startled when he touched the slab's wet, sticky surface.

John stared at his blood-smeared hand and tried to wrap his mind around the chilling discovery. A sacrificial alter was bizarre even for the Zetas - ritual ceremonies were hardly their style. And yet the ornate, worn alter had obviously seen frequent, and very recent, use.

He also knew better than to ever underestimate the cartel's savagery. He had seen ample proof during his years with the agency, photos of torture and dismemberment and butchery so brutal that the acts had shocked him, even after all the dark deeds he had witnessed - and committed - himself.

And now this latest apparent example of their barbarism forced John's mind to all the unwanted thoughts he had been trying to keep at bay, images of Harold in pain and suffering terribly from the Zetas' sadistic cruelty - while he arrived too late and helpless to stop it.

He pushed the terrifying picture away and replaced it with a much more soothing one, of Harold lounging blissful and satisfied in his bed - and solemnly agreeing never to place himself in such danger again. John shook his head as he wiped the congealing blood off his hand and onto a patch of brushy scrub grass. He wasn't sure which delusion was less likely. But none of that would matter anyway unless he could find Harold and free him from the cartel's murderous clutches.

John returned to his inspection of the old farmstead.

The front of the ranch house connected to a large, recent addition, and that building was already coming alive with activity - lights were flickering on, brusque voices began drifting back. There was a side door to the house - most likely for guests requiring an extra level of discretion - but this was bolted shut. Beyond that however was a smaller room at the very back of the house, with gauzy curtains switching through a lone open window.

Even if he could fit through the window, any approach to the house would immediately be detected; he'd have only a few moments before the Zetas found him. But at least he would be inside, and he'd be that much closer to reaching Harold. Everything else would just have to be figured out as he went along.

The morning stillness abruptly dissolved in a burst of quarrelling, angry voices that escalated until the little desert sparrows that nested under the home's broad eaves took startled, unhappy flight. Gunshots and a round of callous laughter quickly resolved the argument - as well as John's last bit of indecision. He couldn't wait another moment to get Harold way from these brutish men.

The window would have to do.

He bolted for the house - tripping and nearly stumbling over the door to an old, abandoned cellar as he ran - and hoisted himself through the window.

"I've done nothing to offend the gods, I swear!"

Hunnicutt nearly shouted the words as he backed against the wall, and John clamped his hand over the terrified anthropologist's mouth. _What the hell was that supposed to mean?_

"It's all right, I won't hurt you. I'm going to try to get you out of here but first I need to know if they took anyone else along with you, a shorter man with glasses?"

Hunnicutt's face furrowed in confusion. "You mean the fellow from the Field Museum? I have no idea. They knocked him out first, then me. I haven't seen him since they brought me here."

A furious pounding at the door announced in no uncertain terms that John's time was up, but the crush of his disappointment weighed on him far more heavily than the need to take action. The only thing that truly mattered was Harold, and he wasn't here after all. The door splintered as it was kicked in and John calmly raised his hands and turned to face his assailants.

The cartel's recruits were barely out of their teens, and despite the high-powered rifles they were brandishing in his face John knew he could overpower them without much effort. But perhaps some clue to Harold's fate could still be found in this place, and John wanted to know the truth, however devastating. He owed his partner that much, at least.

He was taken to a large, grungy parlor that had clearly seen better days. The dirt and disrepair had not prevented the Zetas from embracing their love of technology however, as an obscenely large HD television occupied the front of the room and several of the cartel's lieutenants had gathered to guffaw at a raucous and incomprehensible game show.

The only other doorway opened into the large building he had seen from outside. A body was casually slumped against the blood-spattered wall - presumably the loser of the argument he'd heard earlier - and from deep inside the makeshift warehouse voices rose and fell in conversation. One commanding, deliberate speaker seemed to dominate though, and John suspected that whatever "negotiation" was taking place was merely a formality.

"Is that you, Reese? I'd heard you'd 'retired.'"

John turned towards the apathetic voice emanating from the shadows at the back of the room.

Ken Waldorf had haunted the same murky depths of the CIA as he had, and they had worked together occasionally when their missions had overlapped or run parallel. Never sadistic like Kara, he was also never one to question the work, and he'd carried out their assignments with an untroubled approach that had served him well in the more ambiguous areas of the Agency.

"It was more of a lateral career move. I freelance now."

John chose his words carefully, and delivered them with a studied casualness. A hired mercenary might be allowed to live as a sort of professional courtesy. A "concerned third party" would most likely be executed on the spot.

Waldorf regarded him closely, and exchanged glances with the man who appeared to be his partner, a redheaded fellow in his early fifties. But years of experience and intense undercover work served John well, even under the scrutiny of an old comrade.

"Nice suit," the agent said finally. "I guess the private sector agrees with you, whatever you've been up to."

The game show ended and was followed by _CNN International_, and both men turned towards the television as the lead story began.

_The search continues for celebrity anthropologist Edward Hunnicutt, whose mysterious disappearance has captured the attention of the world. Dane Maxwell, spokesman for the Museum of Natural History, emphasized that every effort was being made to recover the famed scholar, and that several law enforcement agencies have joined forces to coordinate the search…_

Waldorf stalked across the room in obvious irritation.

"Did you hear that Cesar? I warned you this would happen. The entire world is looking for Ramon's new houseguest."

The agent was directing his harangue at the entrance to the warehouse, and John watched in fascination as the world's most powerful drug lord - the man whose photo had graced dozens of CIA dossiers - walked unperturbed into the room and over to his former colleague.

"That nutjob nephew of yours is going to have everyone from Interpol to Batman on our doorstep unless we get Hunnicutt out of here."

"There's no need to be disrespectful, Agent Waldorf," Cesar replied coolly. "Ramon is young and high-spirited, that's all, and his desire to embrace the wisdom of our ancestors is quite admirable. He's very passionate about Mr. Hunnicutt's work."

"Yeah, well I like Jerry Springer but I don't keep him locked in the trunk of my car. Ramon is going to bring down this entire operation - and that won't end well for either of us."

Cesar scowled, but didn't argue with the truth of Waldorf's assertion. The two men might be working together but they certainly weren't easy bedfellows.

"Right then. We agree that Hunnicutt has got to go, and my old friend here is going to help us."

The agent turned his attention back to John.

"That _is_ why you're here, right? For Hunnicutt?"

_The Numbers wait for no one, Mr. Reese…_

A chasm of emptiness opened up in his chest. There was absolutely no indication that Finch had ever been here, and if his partner were truly gone then getting their final Number to safety was the only thing - the _last_ thing - that John could do for him now. Harold would be pleased by that.

"The museum wanted to protect its investment - under the radar."

"Well it's your lucky day, Reese. You're going to get your man, all wrapped up with a pretty bow."

Waldorf conferred with the redheaded agent for a few minutes, who then left and headed in the direction of the anthropologist's room.

"Hunnicutt is being told that a private security company has negotiated his release. He'll be advised that it was a sensitive negotiation, that the details won't be made public and that he shouldn't ask any questions. I doubt he'll care anyway as long as he's going home, but just in case I think we should make sure that he remembers as little as possible about his return trip.

Waldorf's messy briefcase was open on the table behind them; he removed a small bottle and a large hypo from its side pocket, and pulled what John assumed was a powerful sedative into the syringe.

"Give him this as soon as he's in the car, and he'll sleep like a kitten until you're across the border."

John nodded, and glanced into the warehouse as two of Cesar's goons dragged the bullet-ridden body away.

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised to find you here, Ken."

"I'm just the good soldier I've always been. The Company has been using drug money to finance its off-the-book operations since long before we were recruited."

"But the Z's, Ken? That's an awful lot of collateral damage even for the CIA to take on."

Waldorf grimaced, and nodded in agreement.

"It was so much easier in the old days when the government just took its share like the rest of us. But after Calderon declared war on the cartels we all had to make some new friends.

"The Zetas are an efficient organization. Ambitious too. They're getting ready to challenge the Russians and the Italians, and we're backing their expansion into the east coast. The technology is different now, but it's still a highly profitable arrangement for both sides.

"It's just business, Reese, and you used to understand that."

"_Noooo!"_

Both men reeled and aimed their weapons towards the hysterical voice as Ramon and Cesar emerged from the back of the ranch house.

"No! You can't take him. Our gods have waited patiently for the time of their return since the demon Cortez first despoiled our sacred land. _Huitzilopochtli_ and _Quetzalcoatl _are speaking to me through Edward Hunnicutt, commanding me to preside over their reunion with the Aztec people. I am the god's chosen vessel! I have been destined for this moment since the eagle first perched on a cactus and devoured the serpent!"

Waldorf glanced at John and rolled his eyes. "There's one in every family," he muttered before turning back to the drug czar. "Get the situation under control, Cesar, or I will." He motioned conspicuously with his drawn gun.

Cesar glared and turned his back on them, then slipped an arm around his nephew's shoulders, speaking to the younger man in a low, placating voice. Ramon angrily threw off his uncle's arm though and attempted to stalk away. This time however Cesar's hand closed hard around Ramon's neck, and he gave his nephew a prolonged, violent shake.

The message was apparently received because Ramon slunk to the back of the room and stared glumly into the shadows, looking positively bereft. Cesar appeared none too happy either, but he turned and nodded to Waldorf.

"Good. Now that that's settled, would you like me to take care of the other one?"

John froze and forced his eyes towards the television before his face could give him away. His heart nearly stopped, but hope pounded wildly in his chest. The_ other one _could only be Harold…

"No. Leave him with me for now. I doubt he'll last much longer anyway, and in the meantime he's been surprisingly useful."

Their attention was drawn back down the hall just then by the sound of a labored, uneven gait and the jeers of the cartel soldiers. Harold entered the room with his head down, and John's elation at seeing him alive quickly turned to fury when he saw the manacles and a chain so heavy and painful that it must surely have been meant as torture. The remnants of his fine suit hung from his slight frame; deep bluish shadows carved half-moons under his eyes and a painful-looking scrape on one side of his face had gone unattended and was now caked over with blood. Harold's limp was as bad as John had ever seen it, and it was a wonder he could even walk at all, dragging that monstrous chain.

As he shuffled into the room one of the goons caught the chain with the toe of his boot and gave it a sharp tug, nearly pulling the billionaire's feet out from underneath him and drawing harsh laughter from the other thugs. Finch jerked back and righted himself, but waves of pain undulated across his face and John could only imagine what the effort had cost him. Still Harold kept his head lowered and refused to engage his tormentors.

"There's no danger in keeping him around," Cesar continued. The Field Museum has never heard of a Harold Crane. He's no one, and no one will miss him. Isn't that right, Mr. Crane?"

Harold finally raised his head then, and when he did his gaze fell directly on John. His eyes widened and filled at the sight of him but there was still fire there, and even though his lip trembled in the tiniest way that only John noticed, he did a remarkable job of maintaining his composure. Their eyes locked and held.

"Take him away. It's time for our new recruit to get to work."

With a jab to the small of his back Harold was marched towards the warehouse door, so close that he brushed his hand against John's as he passed, so close that John could have wrapped his arms around Harold and taken him back right then and there.

But much as he longed to do exactly that - even as the heat from Harold's touch seemed to sear through his skin and into his very flesh - there was no endgame to that move, and so far this fragile, inadvertent charade was holding. If he made it out with Hunnicutt now he could get the anthropologist to safety and return for Harold after nightfall, with a chance at least of keeping them both alive. He forced his gaze away and let Harold limp past him, his mind exerting excruciating discipline over his heart.

It was only after Harold was out of sight that John realized he'd bitten down so hard on his lip that he had drawn blood.

"All right, Reese, ready to go?"

Waldorf's colleague escorted Hunnicutt into the room. The anthropologist looked anxious and queasy, but brightened when he saw John. "Hey! Are you getting out of here too?" he called cheerfully. "Did you find your friend with the glasses?"

The words expanded to fill the room, and then hung there for a frozen moment until Waldorf jerked his head and Hunnicutt was hustled away through the warehouse. He glared furiously at John, shaking his head in disbelief before muttering a few gruff words to one of his operatives. Within moments Harold was shoved back into the room and thrown down at John's feet, gasping as he landed hard on the splintering wood floor. John knelt to reach for him, but the nose of Waldorf's gun caught him under the chin, forcing him back up.

"_This _is who you're here for?" he asked incredulously.

All pretense was over, as quickly as it had begun. John met his old comrade's gaze and nodded.

Waldorf gave him a deeply curious look but said nothing more and made no objection when Cesar's men dragged Harold away to the other side of the room. Finch climbed shakily to his feet, and caught John's eye long enough to let him know he was okay.

Cesar had been watching the drama unfold with malevolent glee. The energy in the room had shifted palpably in his favor, and when he finally spoke there was no small amount of satisfaction in his voice.

"It looks like you have some cleaning up of your own to do, Agent Waldorf."

The agent's mouth pulled down in distaste, but he cocked his gun and nodded.

"Sorry Reese. It's not personal."

John tensed, ready to reach for his weapon, but at a gesture from Cesar the cartel soldiers trained their rifles on him as well, firing squad style. The drug lord himself pointed a pistol directly at Finch's head, and with that he was decidedly out of moves. John turned towards his partner and drank in one last look.

Harold was the final sight he'd have chosen anyway.

"No wait! Let me do it!"

All eyes turned towards the nearly forgotten Ramon Ruiz.

"Let me do it. My gods have given you a great gift," he gestured dramatically towards Harold, "and now they demand a sacrifice in return."

John's mind flashed to the blood-soaked altar at the front of the compound, and a sick, powerful chill crept through him.

Cesar's features became a mask of evil delight, and he beamed indulgently at his nephew.

"And what do your gods have in mind for our guest?"

"My gods are ancient and he should be offered to them in the old way - he should be skinned alive and his heart cut from his body while it is still beating. _Huitzilopochtli - _god of war and of the sun, blue hummingbird of the south - demands this sacrifice!"

Ramon's mouth hardened into the cruel, familial smile and Cesar matched it with one of his own.

"Who am I to deny the gods?" he said grandly.

Ramon turned to John, a fanatical glow suffusing his face and the obsidian-tipped _tecpatl _quivering with anticipation in his hand.

"Do not fear this fate, my friend. You have been a warrior in this lifetime and you have known the glory of taking lives for a righteous cause. Now you have been chosen once again, and destiny has brought you to an honorable and noble death. Those who are sacrificed to the war god _Huitzilopochtli_ become his soldiers in the afterlife, claiming souls and doing battle against the darkness for all eternity."

John stared at him, and blinked hard against the unexpected sting.

Was this really his fate, was he really condemned to follow the same dark path in the next life as in this one? To be denied any sort of peace even in death? Had the good work that Harold had brought him to done _nothing_ to redeem him?

He shook his head, angry that he'd let this lunatic touch a nerve, and stole a steadying glance at Harold. But Finch looked stricken as well and John turned away, embarrassed that his partner had so thoroughly seen through him.

Both the cartel soldiers and the agency operatives now had their weapons trained on him. A standoff appeared to be in progress as Cesar and Waldorf contentiously debated the most appropriate method for his execution, until another voice interrupted the din.

"You people actually have no idea what I'm capable of doing with a computer."

It was the first time Harold had spoken since he'd been dragged through the parlor, and his voice was as strong and steady as ever. He easily commanded the attention of the room.

"I can cripple your rivals by cutting off their supplies, and hide your money in countries you've never even heard of. I have the resources to fabricate diplomatic immunity, corrupt entire police departments and have your lieutenants elected to the highest political offices. I can make your organization untouchable, even beyond the protection that your friends with the CIA can provide."

Ruiz looked both intrigued and highly amused.

"And why would you offer me your extensive services now?"

"Because I want you to let him go. That is the price for my cooperation."

John stared at his partner, appalled. Harold gazed back at him wistfully and gave him a determined little smile, and only then did his voice waver a bit as he continued.

"Let him walk out that door right now, and when I've verified that he's safely out of the country we can all get down to business."

John was already shaking his head. He understood exactly what Harold was offering. He would _belong_ to these ruthless men, in servitude to the most heinous drug cartel in the world for as long as he was useful - and disposed of without a thought when they were finished with him.

"Not while I have a breath, Harold."

Finch lifted his chin defiantly, and fixed John with that stubborn look the ex-op knew so well.

Waldorf followed the exchange with interest but said nothing, leaving it to Cesar to respond.

"Thank you for sharing such a comprehensive résumé and I assure you that we will take full advantage of your skills. But in return I'd rather that you simply enjoy what promises to be a most entertaining display.

"Make your sacrifice, Nephew."

Waldorf turned to John with a shrug. "It's their country. What they do here is none of the Agency's concern as long as it doesn't interfere with our arrangement. Guess you should have 'retired' when you had the chance."

There was perhaps a hint of sympathy in his former colleague's eyes and John jumped at it. They had run the blackest of ops together, had seen and done things that were incomprehensible to most normal people. There was a code among agents who existed at that dark depth, and if some shred of decency still remained in the other man, John needed to call upon it now.

He motioned his head minutely towards Harold, and spoke quietly to his old comrade.

"Don't make him watch this, Ken."

Waldorf looked at him intently, scrutinizing his face as if a decision could be found there, and for a moment John thought his final request was going to be denied. But the agent scooped up the forgotten hypo and walked briskly across the room, jabbing the syringe into Harold's neck with one smooth motion. John's instinctive protest died in his throat; he watched miserably as Harold toppled hard to the ground, hitting his head and skewing his glasses as he fell. An unconscious Harold was the best he could hope for now for both their sakes, and he gave Waldorf a grateful nod.

He faced Ramon then, and the demented man grinned and pressed the gleaming obsidian blade beneath John's eye, against the sensitive skin that covered his cheekbone.

During his time with the Agency he'd occasionally been sent to countries where death by flaying was a common practice. He'd heard the agonized screams of men as their skin was peeled away from their flesh, heard them beg for the mercy of death, and John had no illusions about the pain that awaited him now.

Rather than seeing past events of his life though, with all of their sorrows and sins and regrets, he saw instead the life he might have had with Harold, saw himself stroking soft skin, burying his face in Harold's neck and disappearing into him as Harold held him in his arms - and for a moment those sensations were more real than the blade that was about to slash through his skin.

But that was a pleasure he would never know, and he could only hope that Harold's death would be easier than his own imminent one.

.

It had been Waldorf's indifferent operatives who had come for him rather than Cesar's thugs, and they had shaken him roughly out of his stupor before hauling him from his underground prison. The agent's syringe obviously had contained a powerful tranquilizer.

Nothing could erase those last moments of consciousness from his mind however - John's wounded look as Ramon's words inadvertently found his greatest vulnerability, his own desperate attempt to save John from the unimaginable agony of the insane man's torture, the anguished resignation on his partner's face as Waldorf had plunged the hypo into Harold's neck and darkness had surrounded him.

And now as he was prodded along the too familiar route towards the warehouse every sense was keen for even the smallest sign that John was still alive, that he had somehow survived and would suddenly appear, lounging in a doorway or sidling up alongside of him, just as he had done so many times before.

It was unimaginable that John was truly gone.

The heat was already stifling; the compound was still quiet and he heard the buzzing first, even before he turned the corner into the warehouse. The first wave of grief washed over him as his eyes were drawn to the tarp-covered body dumped against the wall like so much trash, the enormous green-eyed horseflies gathering in greedy hordes around the blood that seeped out from underneath the canvas.

Until that moment he had always thought the word _heartbroken_ was merely a poetic expression of sadness and loss. But as he gazed upon the still form of John's mutilated body covered by that filthy cloth, Harold thought that his heart might literally break, might shatter into a hundred tiny pieces, and he raised his hand to his chest in almost physical pain.

It should have been his lips and his hands on John's skin, not Ramon's cruel blade. It should have been him asking for John's heart, and he ached for what might have been.

He sat motionless beneath the glare of the fluorescent light - shackled once again to the steel table as the warehouse came to life around him - and stared numbly at the mangled, forgotten body. It seemed important somehow that he keep this final vigil, that they spend these last sad minutes together as partners.

And when the agency lackeys finally appeared and dragged John's body away, Harold felt his own will to live depart along with it. As determined as he'd been to stay alive during this horrific ordeal, his desire now for it to all be over was even more powerful, and when he was dumped back into his cellar at the end of the day he was ready to simply fade away, to let oblivion and nothingness finally end his pain.

As he was about to let go, unbidden to his mind came the cherished little rescue scene he'd imagined so many times before, sustaining him through the desolate, hope-forsaken nights. It seemed perverse that it should return to him now - now that John was dead, taken from him and murdered in the most gruesome way imaginable - but he didn't try to fight it. He would give anything to see John again, to be able to recall him whole and alive, teasing or even angry with him, if only for one minute more.

"Harold, can you hear me?"

A low rasp, close to his ear. A trembling touch to the small of his throat, seeking a pulse.

He could almost feel John's hands on him. Harold marveled at the vividness of his delusion, and wondered if John ever would have touched him as tenderly in life as he was in this dream. It was a nice thought - a peaceful, comforting one - and he prepared to slip away, the grace of his final wish seemingly granted.

But now those hands were turning him gently, cradling him against a body that was warm and alive and breathing, and a cup of cool water was being pressed against his cracked lips.

"Stay with me Harold, _please. _ Can you do that? I need you to fight for me."

Then the cup was gone and he was being held like he had never been held before, and he felt a sudden fluttering warmth, as if he were being kissed softly on the forehead. He smiled in spite of everything at this improbable bit of comfort, and decided to risk it all by opening his eyes.

John's still-handsome face looked down at him, anxious and fraught but unmarred by pain and torture, and oh how he wanted to believe it, wanted to reach out and touch and have it really be John. Just for a moment Harold felt his heart quicken and hope, but the horror and weight of the last few days closed in on him, constricting his throat like a nightmare so that he couldn't even cry out. They had taken John away from him forever, and this impossibly cruel sight was surely the after-effect of the drugs he had been given, or perhaps merely proof that his mind had finally become unmoored after all the brutality he'd witnessed.

He tried to pull away, but John reached for his hand and held on to it tightly.

"You're going to be all right, Harold. There's a hospital not far from here - "

"No!"

The word sprang from his lips instinctively, startling them both, and it came from some dark, terrified place deep inside him. A hospital meant more harsh unforgiving lights, more prying, invasive hands on his body, more drugs clouding his mind.

But the very act of speaking seemed to have dispelled some of the confusion. He could feel his mind beginning to clear, and after a second or two more he began trusting his senses again. He still didn't understand _how_, and for once he didn't care. The relief that was flooding John's face was proof enough, and that face had never looked more beautiful to him than it did at this moment. At last he found a quiet, tremulous voice.

"It's exceedingly good to see you again, Mr. Reese."

"Likewise, Finch. Likewise."

John's voice was barely a whisper, his eyes glistened and never left Harold's face. There was so much more that Harold wanted to say, but the physical abuse of the past days had taken a merciless toll and could no longer be denied. His body ached unbearably on the hard cellar floor, and he had the sudden wild fear that if he didn't move soon he would never walk again. He started to scramble to his feet but John stopped him with a gentle hand on his shoulder and pulled a rusting key from his coat pocket.

The shackles fell to the ground with a dull clang and John picked them up and flung them hard against the cellar wall.

"Let's get out of here, Harold."

He made it up the cellar's narrow steps more or less on his own power, although John never loosened his grip on his arm. He guided Harold over to a battered blue sedan and opened the rear door so that he could lie down and rest, but Harold brushed past him and reached for the handle of the front door instead. He needed to be next to John, not a ridiculous distance away. He needed to be close enough to hear his heartbeat and feel his warmth, close enough to sense that life itself still flowed through him.

A large hand covered his, and Harold braced for a fight, but instead John's arms folded around him, pulling him close and pressing their bodies together, holding onto him as if his strength had always been meant for them both.

"Fine," he whispered.

He felt John's head come to rest against his own; his arms remained wrapped tightly around him and they stood motionless together under their own private spell, until the eerie call of a desert owl brought them back around and John finally released him.

They slid wordlessly into the car.

He settled himself next to John and shuddered a deep exhale as the sedan pulled away from the wretched cellar, leaving his prison behind them at last. As they approached the front of the house though, Harold startled to see Waldorf silently observing their departure from the dilapidated porch, and for one breathtaking moment he feared that their nightmare wasn't over after all.

But John merely slipped a reassuring hand over his own and nodded to the other agent as they passed, and as the car turned onto the neglected highway Harold tried to assemble the pieces.

"John, the body that I saw…"

"It was Cesar's. Turns out Waldorf had been contemplating a change of business partners for a while. He saw an opportunity with me."

"Did you…?"

"No, that was all Ken. He needed me around in case any of Cesar's associates had a problem with the new arrangement, but in the end they were all pretty flexible with their loyalty. Hunnicutt should be back in New York by now, and whatever Ken has done with Ramon I doubt that it will be pleasant, and I doubt that he'll be heard from again."

A shadow of remorse clouded John's face.

"I'm sorry I couldn't come for you sooner. Ken needed to have all his loose ends tied up before I could leave. That was part of the deal."

"And now he's just letting us go?"

There was a pause, and when John finally spoke he turned and looked directly into Harold's eyes, his voice soft and husky.

"It didn't take him long to realize that I have my price too."

The simple statement silenced him; his own emotions were still too raw for Harold to find words in return.

But it was no problem at all to run a trembling hand through John's hair, or tenderly stroke his cheek, or find John's lips with his own in the darkness.

And if the old car swerved a little precariously across the deserted road, well it was midnight in Mexico on a sweltering, airless night, the prairie dogs were indifferent to their story, and the moon was a trustworthy keeper of secrets.

.

He woke to the wonder of clean sheets on a soft bed, and a light pressure and warm breath where John's head rested against his shoulder. A long arm was draped purposefully across his hips, and John's other arm circled his head like a promise.

Harold considered the possibility that he had indeed died and was now experiencing his own personal version of heaven.

Warm morning sun crept around the tattered shades suffusing the room in a muted glow, and the soft _per-coo_ of a mourning dove outside the window was its own music. He stretched a little, testing his shackle-free limbs, and John moved with him, pulling him closer. Harold closed his eyes again, basking in the simple pleasures of being safe and clean and held.

He had been beyond exhaustion by the time they'd arrived at the nondescript Laredo hotel; he remembered little besides insisting on a hot shower, and the relief he'd felt as he washed away the filth and pain of his underground prison. The pulsing warm water had been bliss itself on his aching body, and he'd stayed under the soothing spray longer than was really wise, until his legs had trembled beneath him and John had helped him to the bed.

And then he'd slipped in alongside of him, wrapping his whole body around Harold's and making him feel like the world was a safe place after all.

The terrible memories of the past few days were still there of course, but they withered under the knowledge that John hadn't stopped searching until he'd found him, that he had risked an inconceivably excruciating death in order to save Harold's life. And even more wondrously, John _wanted_ him; his electric response to last night's impetuous kiss left no doubt in Harold's mind about that.

That memory brought with it the full recognition that he was naked, actually naked in bed with John, which was thrilling but also a little terrifying and his pulse began to quicken. But John's hand moved across his chest and came to rest above Harold's heart, as if to calm the drumming there, and a low voice next to his ear murmured, "Good morning, Harold." A gentle kiss was pressed against his shoulder and it all felt so natural, not like they were waking up together for the first time.

He leaned back into the pillow, relishing the warm sensation as John nuzzled into his neck, letting his fingertips trace a soothing path down Harold's arm and back again, sending a pleasant little quiver racing across his skin.

Just as he relaxed though, John seemed to tense, to panic almost. Something desperate seemed to cross his face; he looked stricken as he shifted Harold towards him, gripping his shoulder and kissing his throat fiercely, and Harold understood fully for the first time what an awful toll their ordeal had taken on his partner as well.

But even in his need John was so gentle with him, so acutely aware of the fragilities of Harold's body; and as John's hand moved down his back and then lower, cupping soft flesh there, Harold felt a little thrill as his body began to respond.

Everything stilled though as John searched his face, then looked away. "Is this okay, Harold?" he whispered, his voice hoarse and hopeful, his hands never leaving Harold's body. That John still needed to ask that question came close to breaking Harold's heart all over again, and he touched his hand to the handsome face. He was so ready to go where John wanted to take him, and he only wished he had shown him sooner exactly how he felt…

"Is this okay, Harold?"

Harold's greatest secret had always been his heart, and John wasn't sure he knew it, even now. He'd meant only to comfort and reassure, but the taste of Harold's soft skin on his lips - the familiar scent of him, the very nearness of him - had flamed every wild, hopeless desire he'd been fighting for so long, it had roiled up every terrible, aching fear that still haunted. By some miracle though the man was lying next to him, safe and unharmed, and John was ready to let that be enough if Harold didn't truly want him, body and soul.

But Harold was touching his face now, and urging his lips apart, and slowing time itself as he made a delicate exploration of John's mouth, leisurely and tender, finally helping himself to a kiss so deep and dizzying that stars spun out across John's closed eyelids.

Harold's lips were so soft against his rougher ones that for a breathless moment John feared he was being offered a treasure he didn't deserve. But his hand was drawn down then and placed just _so, _and his fingers curled around, longing to stroke and caress. Harold brought his lips close to his ear.

"It's _more _than okay, John."

The words were like his own shackles falling away.

Harold was hard and alive beneath his hand - aching for _him_ \- and his soft moan when John touched him sent a bolt like summer lightening coursing through his body and thunder pounding in his ears. Harold was _his_ now, to love and protect, and John stroked him gently and with awe, almost undone by the dreamlike intimacy and his own arousal as Harold groaned and shivered with pleasure at each lingering caress.

The open affection on Harold's face, so unguarded and vulnerable, seemed to unearth something primal in him; John found his mouth instinctively, almost feverishly, and Harold returned the kiss with all the passion he had ever dared hope for, raking his hand through John's hair even as he shifted away from his touch.

"For now at least, we have time."

It had been so long since he had truly _made love_, and been made love to in return, that he'd forgotten what it was like to feel this much a part of another person.

But Harold was making it his mission to remind him now, and John wanted to live in his tenderness as he gently brushed his cheek against John's face and let it rest there a moment, the intoxicating warmth of his breath on John's neck already enough to make him feel giddy. Harold softly kissed each eyelid, and John let his eyes remain closed as Harold trailed his lips down to slowly savor his mouth once more, before stealing to his throat and drawing a gasp by leaving a pulsing, fiery brand there.

It seemed as though Harold were charting a voyage over his bare skin, tracing a scar here, teasing with his mouth there, exploring every curve and shallow, every long-neglected part of him until Harold's hands on his body felt like an anchoring line in turbulent waters, a safe harbor after drifting alone at sea. He moaned and arched into his touch, longing for more.

He slipped his leg over Harold's and nestled against him, bringing them together slowly, rhythmically, letting the exquisite sensation of flesh against hard flesh radiate between them, sending Harold's heart pounding in time with his own and torching the need in them both.

For all the times he'd imagined being with Harold, it had never been as sweet as this.

Harold's lips pressed adamantly against his, white-hot and possessive, and his hand traced an urgent path between John's legs, to the last untouched part of him, claiming him with slow, measured strokes that sent almost unbearable tremors of pleasure rippling through his body, and he trembled at both the touch and how it exposed, revealing him in a way he could trust only to Harold.

He needed to know all of Harold as well, needed to discover the last of his mysteries, and Harold's hands guided as John covered him, finding his lips more tenderly and letting everything else fall away.

Only Harold remained, naked beneath him and whispering his name, drawing him in till there was no difference between them and bringing him home at last.

.

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A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Reviews are always welcome, and very much appreciated!


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